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Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield 1 view'd: Her form majestic droop'd in pensive wo,

The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war,

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurld, That like a deatnful meteor gleam'd afar,

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world :“My patriot Son fills an untimely grave !"

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried “Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save,

Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride! “ A weeping country joins a widow's tear,

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier,

And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. "I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richily blow; But, ah! how hope is born but to expire!

Relentless fate has laid this guardian low. “My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung,

While empty greatness saves a worthless name? No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue,

And future ages hear his growing fame. 6 And I will join a mother's tender cares,

Thro’ future times to make his virtues last, That distant years may boast of other Blairs:"?

She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.

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ADDRESS

TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS

BUST AT EDNAM, BOXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS.

1

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,

Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,

Or tunes Æolian strains between;
While Summer with a matron grace

Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace

The progress of the spiky blade;
While Autumn, benefactor kind,

By Tweed erects his aged bead,
And sees, with self-approving mind,

Each creature on his bounty fed;
While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar.

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of suows :

So long, sweet poet of the year,

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;
While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

1

EITPAPH

FOR THE AUTHORS' FATHER.

OʻYE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains,

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ; Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human wo ;

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe

“For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side*."

FOR R. A. ESQ.

Know thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov'd, much honor'd name ;
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart Death ne'er made cold.

* Goldsmith.

ON A FRIEND.

An honest man here lies at rest,
As e'er God with his image blest ;
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth
Few, hearts, like his, with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so inform’d;
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this,

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near :
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a Bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by! But with a frater-feeling strong,

Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave;
Here pause--and thro’ the starting tear,

Sarvey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame,
But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name!

Reader attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's fights beyond the pole,
Or darkly grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit ;
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control,

Is wisdom's root.

VERSES.

ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

Born in peculiar circumstances of Family Distréss.

SWEET Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,

And ward o' monie a pray'r,
What heart o'stane wad thou na move.

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!
VOL. I.-M

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